


Trim

by PUNIFA



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-07
Updated: 2012-04-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 05:50:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PUNIFA/pseuds/PUNIFA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short post-fall fic; Molly cuts Sherlock's hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trim

**Post-Fall, Molly cuts Sherlock's hair.**

"Sorry, what?" Molly glances up from where Toby is curled comfortably in her lap to where Sherlock is looming beside her chair, eyes stony with determination.

"I detest repetition, Molly." She cringes slightly into her chair and Toby leaps from her knees, pattering around Sherlock's ankles.

"It's just, well… I'm no hairdresser. And I haven't got proper shears."

"Kitchen scissors will do, and since it's probably best if it's butchered anyway your lack of skill is perfectly suited for the job." Molly sighs and rises from the comfort of her chair. Having Sherlock staying with her – even for just two weeks – was… well, to be honest, just as difficult as she would have expected. For the first few days he'd curled up in bed, refusing to do anything other than check his e-mails and scrutinize some intimidating looking files. Then, of course, he hadn't brought any extra clothes so she'd had to deal with him wandering the house in a hospital gown until she could scrounge some cheap, completely not-Sherlock outfits from a secondhand shop.

Molly removes an intimidating set of kitchen scissors from a drawer and turns around, squeaking softly when she nearly bumps into Sherlock's chest. There's that, too, how he just sneaks up on her without a whisper of sound. He wrinkles his nose at the scissors but drags a chair from the table and plops himself onto it, staring at her pointedly when she hesitates.

"I-I'll just get a towel for your shoulders. And a sheet for the floor, goodness knows Toby leaves enough hair as it is."

"Fur."

"What?"

"He leaves  _fur_ , not hair."

Molly heaves a sigh. "Right." She hastens to the linen closet, tugging out a sheet and a small towel. Sherlock stands and actually goes so far as to lift the chair for her while she spreads the cloth underneath it before settling back down and allowing her to drape the towel over his shoulders. He tips his head back and waits, and Molly approaches him carefully before another thought jumps into her mind.

"Oh! We'll have to wet your hair." She's off before he can object, returning with a clear, water-filled spray bottle. She steps behind him once again and he huffs petulantly but makes no further comment, shutting his eyes and waiting.

Molly quickly douses his hair with the spray bottle; the room is silent except for the pitter-patter of stray drops of water plummeting onto the sheet. As she lifts a silky hank of hair between her fingers she thinks how absurd this is – she'd imagined her fingers in Sherlock's hair on more than one occasion, but so much had shifted between them that no thrill ran through her, and her cheeks remained un-tinted by blush. She is still, however, incredibly hesitant, because she's always admired Sherlock's hair.

"On with it, Molly," Sherlock drawls impatiently, and she sets her lips and makes the first cut.

It's surprisingly companionable, neither of them speaking, just the snick of the scissors and the soft thumping as his hair gathers on the floor. The only communication between them is the gentle guidance of her fingers, tipping his head this way and that in an effort to keep his hair at least slightly aligned.

At last, with her fingers aching from the ill-suited handles of the scissors, Molly steps back, observing her work. It's a little bit lopsided, and some bits are too shaggy, but without that mad fringe of hair sweeping over his forehead and around his cheeks Sherlock looks slightly vulnerable, and almost like a uni-student. At least until his eyes narrow and he runs his fingers through his hair, spilling loose strands onto his shoulders.

"Let me see." Molly nods, fetching the small wall-mirror from her living room and handing it off to him. He glances into it briefly before making another demand. "You have a ball cap in your coat closet. Bring it to me." After a heartbeat of a pause he adds, to her near-shock, "please."

She finds the cap and sets it over his extended fingers, curling her hands together as he pulls it onto his head and looks into the mirror once more.

Sherlock is silent, but his eyes soften and his lips droop gently at the corners. Molly's heart constricts briefly.

"You look… sad again."

Sherlock simply continues staring in the mirror, eyes tightening slightly.

"Because he won't recognize you."

He tugs the cap lower over his face, casting shadows over his cheekbones, shutting out the glint of his clear irises, transforming himself effectively enough. He sets the mirror against the legs of his chair and rises, tossing the towel from his shoulders and onto the floor.

"Thank you, Molly." Sherlock stalks off and shuts himself into the guest bedroom, leaving a lonely trail of hair behind him. Molly stares at his closed door for a moment, then begins sweeping up the floor, gathering the clumps of hair into a bag and tossing them into the bin.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly me playing around with characters I don't write very much that I'd really like to include in something more expansive (meaning Molly, of course!)


End file.
